Page 33 of Scotlander

Willa’s stomach twisted with something new. Envy maybe? The energy zapping between Rosa and Jeff was . . . well . . . it was beautiful. It looked exactly like the kind of true love everyone wanted in real life. The kind Valentina and Diego had. The kind her own parents shared.

‘We have worked hard to find the best Jamie . . . or Claire . . .’ Orla said with a special look at Jules and a nervous one at Gabe, ‘. . . as per the instructions on your booking sheet.’

Again, Willa and Gabe exchanged a look. Booking sheets?

There definitely hadn’t been anything like a booking sheet in their scant paperwork.

They’d had flight details, sealed letters from Val and the brochure featuring Finn, but that had been it.

‘Rosa and Jeff,’ Orla was saying, ‘you two are, of course, being paired together as requested. Instead, you will have a “son” to help you out. Everyone else? Get ready. You’re about to meet your shiny new Scottish spouse.’

Still staring at one another, Willa and Gabe’s eyes widened as they began to understand. Not only were they not sharing a bedroom, but they were also going to be split up.

‘Valentina?’ Willa asked.

Gabe nodded. ‘Valentina.’

There was no other explanation for it. This was Valentina rubbing her hands together with a gleeful mwah ha ha up in heaven. She loved playing Cupid and had clearly kept them in the dark on purpose.

But . . . hadn’t she already played Cupid by putting Gabe and Willa together for the trip?

Okay, sure, it wasn’t exactly as if they’d spent the entire flight under one of those first-class duvets making out or anything, but . . .

If Val hadn’t yanked Willa away from TiTs during Sweeps Week to fall in love with her sexy estranged brother so that she could spend the rest of her life having him run his perfectly manicured nails through her hair as they watched boxsets and solved celebrity crises before making sweet, sensual, lit-by-moonlight love at night . . . why was she here?

Gabe’s perplexed expression turned completely neutral. Precisely the way it had been when they were at the will reading. Not exactly icy, but it sure wasn’t warm and cuddly.

Willa turned away, unable to hold his steady, unreadable gaze.

‘You will be spending the next two weeks,’ Orla continued, ‘side by side with your Highland husband or wife as you immerse yourself in the eighteenth century.’ She went on to talk about health and safety and how each of the ‘specially chosen spouses’ were all trained in first aid, crofting crafts (whatever those were) and making cups of oolong tea for when the weather turned inhospitable. ‘And believe me, that could be on the hour, every hour, so I hope you all have strong bladders or a penchant for an outdoor wee!’

For some reason, having all of this new information announced in a no nonsense, but enchanting Scottish accent made being married off to someone she’d never met before, only to be put straight to work, seem perfectly reasonable. The same way a French person could make goat intestines stewed with wild garlic and a dollop of mustard sound like an aphrodisiac.

‘And without further ado . . . here they are!’

Feeling as if she’d just been plunged into someone else’s fan-fiction paradise, Willa watched as a set of jolly-looking thirty-something men and one young-ish woman – all in kilts – emerged from behind the stables and began to line up in front of them.

There was a collective farmer/hipster/outdoorsy vibe coming from them. Apart from the last guy who exuded more style than your average brawny, I’ll-just-move-this-wee-boulder-out-of-your-way-lassie type.

All different shapes, sizes and skin tones, the spouses-to-be were wearing variations on what Willa could only describe as a ‘working man’s’ kilt. Something Carhartt should capitalise on if they hadn’t already. Too embarrassed to look at their faces, she focused on the rugged-looking twills, woven in patterns from camouflage through to style-maven guy’s black kilt, which he’d matched to a pair of immaculately polished Doc Martens. She chanced a glance up at his face. He, too, looked very catalogue-man-ish. But for quite a different catalogue. Super Fit Urban Men In The Highlands?

Excepting him, they all wore wax jackets, like Gabe’s, but theirs were decidedly more weather beaten, giving them an added level of ruggedness which, combined with the untamed, uncombed hair, the stubble in some cases, beards in others, was impressive. And then, to her surprise, one more person jogged into the line-up.

Finlay Jamieson.

Oh hell no.

As the guys threw their greetings his way, a deluge of emotions washed through her.

Desire. Fear. Panic. And the scariest of all . . . curiosity.

As her nerves threatened to set in, she reminded herself that this was all a fiction. It wasn’t Highlander Bachelor, or Married at First Kilt or any other type of reality show where one lucky couple actually walked off into a tartan-carpeted happily ever after. This was cosplay, pure and simple. Allowing herself to think this was anything beyond Val playing one of her good old-fashioned tricks was incredibly unwise.

She doubled down on her mantra: men who seem too good to be true always are.

Fenella chose this moment to lean over to Willa and sexy growl, ‘I wouldn’t mind having a bit of rumpy pumpy with McSteamy Farmer Boy.’ She tipped her head towards Finn and started doing bowm-chica-bowm-bowm swirls with her hips.

Willa’s hackles instantly rose, primed for a fight. She might not want him herself, but, confusingly, she didn’t want anyone else to have him either. Which, given that he was here in the Olde Worlde Hotties parade, was a problem.